


Kintsugi

by FickleBiscuits



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Accidental Sex, Blood and Gore, Caleb is really really in his own head, Canon Het Relationship, Character with PTSD, Disturbing Themes, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, How do you want to cue this?, I'm not sure how to tag this exactly., Kintsugi, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Sad with a Happy Ending, canon AU, damaged characters, he died the day after I posted the last chapter, learning, mostly because of Molly, self-sabatage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-04-30 13:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FickleBiscuits/pseuds/FickleBiscuits
Summary: Caleb wakes up to regret, cloying and clinging.It is not a new sensation. It whelms him, as it ever does, while he slowly emerges from the abyss of sleep and tells him instantly, irrefutably that he’s fucked up everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's official, I'm gone on Widofjord. Those two just have such fantastic potential to have a heady, dynamic relationship and I can't wait to see where all of that delicious chemistry goes. Friendship or otherwise.  
> Thanks go to @widowfjordwillwork for the cheerleading and M for the lovely Beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> The poem is Tremors by the eternally lovely Seanchai.  
> The title is taken from the Japanese art form of the same name. Literally translated: 'Beautiful Scars'.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

> _in the shade of night,_  
>    
>    
>  _bled by those things_  
>    
>  _that flay us,_  
>    
>    
>  _I hold my breath_  
>    
>  _just long enough_  
>    
>    
>  _to feel the thought of you_  
>    
>  _flutter against my heart_  
>    
>  _and shatter_  
>    
>  _under my ribs._
> 
>  
> 
> **Tremors - By Seanchai**

 

* * *

 

 

  _Hot._

 

_Need._

 

_Want._

 

_Skin._

 

_Sweat._

 

_Slick._

 

_Can’t._

 

_Grasping hands. Gripping. Taut flesh. Muscles tensing and flexing under bloodless white fingertips and sweat-slicked palms._

 

_Harsh breaths, burning in chests. Throat rough from gasping, voice hoarse from crying out._

 

_Thighs burn, spread wide; quiver with exhaustion, with pleasure as a sleek body moves between them. Forceful, certain in purpose, powerful in motion._

 

_A head pressed into the slender column of a neck, mouth caught open on harsh pants. Lips toy and trace patterns with the thin sheen of sweat glossing the nape, teeth worry sensitive skin. A wavering moan in answer. Fingers dig deeper into shoulder, into back, into ass, drawing blood. Scrabbling. Wanton. Needy._

 

_No words. Just sensation._

 

_Faster._

 

_Shatter._

_Empty._

 

* * *

 

  Caleb wakes up to regret, cloying and clinging. It is not a new sensation. It whelms him, as it ever does, as he slowly emerges from the abyss of sleep. It tells him instantly, irrefutably that he’s fucked up everything.

 

  But today is different, the ache is different. Today the regrets are fresh, closer and more tangible then his old wounds. He can’t quite recall why.

 

  His eyes open slowly, sleep crusted and foggy. They squint at the soft trickle of sunlight seeping through the window slats to paint gilded lines across the floorboards of a room that isn’t his. And then they snap open, wide and awake as the bed behind him dips and shifts and he is suddenly, totally aware of the warm weight of a body pressing against his back.

 

   _And, oh yeah._

 

_That’s why._

 

  An icy spear of dread lances through him and Caleb prays to every deity he can think of, approved and not, that his memories are wrong, that he hasn’t done what every hazy half-formed recollection of the previous night is screaming that he did. It isn't a new prayer.

 

  And just like all the other times he has prayed it, it goes unanswered.

 

  Fjord is in the bed beside him, still asleep, his handsome face free of nightmare or worry. Those same first rays of sunlight steal through the window to dapple his skin, highlight his scars and catch in the tousled strands of his hair to reveal it isn’t black, but in fact a deep, deep green. He is bare but for the bed’s thin blankets and the marks Caleb etched into his skin the night before; dark crescents liberally scattered along his chest and shoulders and neck. Were his thighs and hips visible, Caleb imagines there would be more to see there.

 

  He is beautiful, a pagan god of lustful sensuality laid out in iniquitous temptation.

 

  Caleb’s gut twists and bile bites the back of his throat. Go. He has to go now. Now. Now.

 

 As quickly and as carefully as he can, Caleb eases out of bed, wincing at every rustle of cloth and creaking floorboard. Hastily he gathers his clothing, clutching them in a tight untidy bundle to his chest as he slips out of Fjord’s room, streaking across the unoccupied hallway and into the last door at the end. He gasps out a sigh of relief as he leans his bare back against the door, letting the last of the buzzing, nauseous adrenaline fade.

 

  He stands in the dark, naked and shivering, clutching his clothes for longer than is perhaps wise given he is not alone in this room. But it is long minutes before his thoughts are anything more than an unproductive mess of old and new regrets. Finally, his head clears enough for him to force the panic down and he glances around the tiny room.

 

 His Goblin friend is still sleeping, curled into her pillow and muttering nonsensical fricatives into the air. But Nott is an early riser and Caleb would rather not have to explain his current state of undress, or his own small collection of bites and bruises. He dresses as quickly as his trembling fingers will allow. The adrenaline is mostly gone now, leaving him drained and giddy in its absence. His fingers are clumsy on the buttons, shaky and trembling as he tries not to let his mind slip back into memories of the night before. _Wide hands, surprisingly gentle. A hint of tusks growing back, bite, nip, yes, yes..._

 

   Caleb cycles through the schools of magic, shuffles down his list of memorized spells and shouts their incantations in his mind to drown out any and everything else. This too has become something of a ritual. By the time he’s wrapping the well-worn wool around his neck and shoulders the guilt has tapered down to a low simmer in his stomach and he feels calmer, more in control of himself.

 

  Caleb wanders over to the basin in the room’s far corner and splashes his face with water, icy from the night's chill. He can deal with this. He can handle this. He’s had to carry worse crimes of conscience and he has managed well enough so far.

 

  He just wishes it hadn’t been Fjord.

 

  Caleb leans against the rickety table, arms braced on either corner, his head hung low. Moisture gathers at the tips of his hair, dripping down to stain the table, soft taps in the stillness. Molly, sure. He could have fucked Molly and nothing would have changed, they would have stayed friends, gone their separate ways, Molly onto his newest diversionary flight of fancy, Caleb to the long stretch of anxiety and self-deprecation until the need to escape his own mind overrode his better judgment. But it wasn't Molly. It wasn't Molly’s body that Caleb had clung to, who had pressed so close it felt like they were sharing one breath, one being. It wasn’t Molly who had tangled their fingers together, who’d bit gently at the hollow of Caleb’s throat and whispered strange words in strange tongues into the heated air between them.

 

 It was Fjord.

 

 It was Fjord. And that’s why Caleb’s so tangled up inside.

 

 Because Caleb likes Fjord. In a way he hasn’t let himself for years.

 

  In her bed Nott stirs and sits up, rubbing at her eyes with one tiny clawed hand. She pauses when she spots Caleb, but offers him a sleepy smile and a good morning. Her voice is thin and sleep husky.

 

  “You’re up early. When did you get to bed last night?”

 

  Caleb swallows and considers his words carefully, considers lying to his friend and the syllables rest like razor blades in his throat. So instead he turns back to the washbasin as he replies, hoping the cold water will hide the burning shame on his face.

 

  “I didn’t. I just got in a little bit ago.”

 

  Nott’s eyes flick to Caleb’s bed, glancing over it’s crisp linens and perfect corners then back to Caleb. She nods, looking slightly concerned, but says nothing as she hops out of bed to toddle over to the corner where she's heaped her gear. She begins to pull on her hood and worn leathers, casting worried looks over to Caleb as she dresses. Caleb cannot meet her eyes, instead presses his face into one of the inn's rough towels and waits for the heat of her eyes to slip away.

 

  “Well where did you go?” She finally presses, earnest and genuine. “Did you sleep okay? Were you safe? Did you take a health potion with you?”

 

  “I uh…” Caleb says into the towel. He clears his throat and before he can second guess himself croaks. “You needn't worry about me. I wasn’t in any danger.”

 

  Nott pulls up her hood and pulls up the mask to cover her face. Her cunning yellow eyes sliding over him, taking in every detail of his rumpled coat, the tousled lay of his hair. Whatever answer she finds there seems to satisfy her at least. She reaches down to grab up her crossbow.

 

  “Shall we go get some breakfast?”

 

  “Yes, uh, yes, that would be good.” Caleb agrees, probably too hastily, and holds the door open for her to pass.

 

  The hall is empty and still. No sign of life outside a few muffled snores coming from the room adjacent. Still, Caleb's pulse jumps as they amble their way past Fjord’s door on the way to the stairs. He can almost hear the faint rustle of movement just beyond the rough-hewn wood. He strains and it’s the barest trace of sound, maybe imagined: the squeak of a mattress, the shifting of bed linens, the subtle creak of leather armor. Caleb’s mind wanders, unbidden, his mind’s eye conjuring the silent image:

 

   _Fjord wakes up slowly, his eyes still closed, reaching out to trace along the rumpled sheets before stopping at the cold, empty space where Caleb used to rest. Long slender lines of muscle bunch and flex under verdant skin as the half-orc sits up, searching the floor for the tattered clothing that’s no longer scattered across it._

 

  Caleb can see Fjord’s face.

 

   _Fjord is relieved._

 

  No…

 

   _Fjord is disappointed._

 

  No…

 

   _Fjord is wistful._

 

   _Fjord is angry._

 

_Fjord is…_

 

  Caleb comes back to himself as he reaches the bottom of the long stairway, Nott’s consternated squawks trailing distantly after him. He offers Nott an apologetic half smile as she skitters down after him and then turns to take in the wide common room.

 

  It’s still early yet, given the candance of light dribbling through the tavern’s four front windows. Only handful of guests have made their way down for breakfast yet, the majority of which are curled around mugs of gently steaming coffee and plates of hot food. The barmaid, a comely girl in her late teens, flits from table to table, depositing plates of sausage and roasted potatoes, freshening coffees and flirting with those few who are awake enough to appreciate the attention.

 

  Caleb spots Beau tucked away in one corner, hands clasped around her own mug like a lifeline, her deeply shadowed eyes staring sightlessly off into into middle distance. He goes over and sits himself gingerly into the seat across from hers, Nott, as ever, taking up the space next to him.

 

  “Guten Morgen.” He murmurs and cranes his neck to catch the eye of the barmaid. She smiles and starts over to them, a tray perched on one shapely hip. That job done, Caleb turns his attention back to Beau.

 

  “How did you sleep?”

 

  Beau heaves a heavy sigh that shakes her shoulders and at least, Caleb thinks, there’s someone who’s having a worse morning than he is.

 

  “That well.” He quips lightly and congratulates himself. This is good, this is normal. Nothing's wrong here.

 

“Fuckin’, Jester, man.” Beau husks at the table as the barmaid approaches. She’s petite and possessed of a rather luscious head of curly blond hair, which she’s more or less tamed into a thick braid that's draped over one shoulder. She favors Caleb with a dimpled smile and offers both he and Nott a cup of coffee, which Nott readily accepts for the both of them. Caleb smiles back, small and hopes it’s genuine enough not to look bleak. He orders a stout and not much else and ignores the way the girl’s smile turns wooden at the edges, her eyes full of a world-weary understanding Caleb can't deny.

 

  When Caleb turns back to the table, Beau looks a lot more alert than she did a minute ago. She eyes Caleb with that same discerning eye he doesn’t like, the one that seems to know when he's hiding something. And she is like a dog with a bone when it comes to uncovering secrets. Caleb interjects hastily.

 

  “So what was that about, Jester?

 

  Beau’s eyes mist over again, slipping back into the middle distance and Caleb heaves an internal sigh of relief.

 

  “Yeah, Jester… Have you ever roomed with her before?”

 

  “I’ve not had that pleasure, no.” Caleb replies into his mug.  

  

  Beau groans and puts her head down onto the table. “She giggles in her sleep.”

 

  “She what?” Caleb blinks in surprise.

 

  “All night.” Beau continues as if Caleb hadn’t spoken. “You’d think she’d stop eventually, but she fuckin’ doesn’t. Most of the time I can sleep through it but tonight it was just...”  Beau grumbles into the tabletop.

 

  “Maybe we could switch rooms.” Nott pipes up. “You could share with me.”

 

  Beau waves a hand, her head still down. Her voice is muffled as she replies.

 

  “Nah, I don’t wanna put you guys out.”

 

  “Oh it’s all right. Caleb's found somewhere else to sleep.” Nott assures, without a trace of guile in her tone.

 

  Beau’s head pops up the same instant Caleb’s gut turns cold.

 

  “Really?” Beau’s tone is both casual and casually prying. It’s the dog scenting a bone voice. Caleb hides his grimace in a sip of coffee.

 

  “I uh, didn’t get back to the room until early this morning. I was preoccupied…” He gestures vaguely and rushes on, hoping 'preoccupied' to Beau will mean 'books' and not 'having a mental breakdown and soliciting Fjord for sex'.

 

  “But, em, you and I could certainly trade rooms next time we sleep at an inn, if you wanted. I’m not bothered by giggling.”

 

  Beau’s eyes are narrowed and assessing and are far too calculating for Caleb’s taste. The monk has always seen too much, has always pressed too deeply for Caleb’s frayed nerves and fragile comfort. He pulls a spell book from his coat and flops it open on the table between them, flipping briskly through the pages, pantomiming a desperate search for some elusive passage. A small part of him is afraid Beau will see anyway, that she'll be able to read the truth in everything he doesn't say. It's this same small part which has kept him alive those long years when he was still alone.

 

  “What had you so preoccupied?”

 

   _He can feel the pit of Fjord’s scar as lips trail along his collarbone, trace runes and sigils into his skin. Sweat has gathered in the dips and hollows of their flesh, making friction easy between them. Sliding, a firm hand clasping around his thigh, pulling his hips up, cradling-_

 

  Caleb schools his features and hunches lower over his book.

 

  “Hey Caleb.” Beau tries again, a little more persistently. _Dangerousdangerousdangerous_...

 

  “Sorry,” Caleb mumbles in a soft sing-song. “ I can’t hear you. I’m busy with my books and shit.”

 

  Which thankfully manages to derail the conversation almost entirely. Beau is not at her best this morning; she offers a few more spluttered attempts at interrogation, but they have little drive behind them and are easily ignored. Caleb heaves another internal sigh of relief when Molly and Jester come strutting and dancing up to join them a few minutes later and the question of what he had or hadn’t been up to the night before is forgotten. Or perhaps shelved for another time. There's no way to know for sure with Beauregard. 

 

  Their food and various drinks come. Molly orders himself an ale as soon as he sees Caleb’s gotten himself alcohol and Jester tries drawing yet another dick in his spell book, which Caleb spots because he isn’t actually reading, but lets her draw it anyway because he doesn’t have the heart to tell her no. He can always color over it later.

 

  They’re discussing the group’s next move when Fjord shows up. Caleb feels a familiar crackle, lightening and quicksilver down his spine and he is thankful, not for the first time, that he’s got his head buried in his book, that way no one can see the flush he can feel crawling up his neck. He can almost imagine he feels the half-orc’s eyes on him. The heat and weight of it is nearly tangible. He mutters a half-hearted ‘Guten morgen.’ along with everyone else without picking up his eyes from the prose and wants to believe the words sound distracted rather than strangled.

 

  He doesn’t look at Fjord all through breakfast, doesn’t look at anyone. That’s normal, he tells himself, that’s Caleb. It’s not unusual that he’s standoffish and taciturn. It’s not atypical that he’s hidden himself away and speaks only in short sentences.

 

  And that’s good. That’s great.

 

  He can do this.

 

  Eventually they decide what next to do, where next to sew their well-intentioned chaos and Caleb packs up his books. His plate’s gone cold, the food untouched. He finishes off the dregs of his stout and heads for the door, leaving the rest behind to settle their accounts.

 

  He makes sure not to be caught alone, not to be apart from the group so he can’t be pulled aside, can’t be called, can’t deal with this jumbled mass of questions making knots and tangles of his mind and insides. 

 

  Caleb knows he should talk to Fjord, even as the very idea of it fills him with abject terror. So instead he ignores the tiny poking prod of his conscience and plays a strange caricature of himself all day, one that looks a lot like the Caleb who first joined the group. The Caleb who was small and afraid and said little, unless it was about Frumkin, or magic. But this version never looks or speaks to Fjord.

 

  He goes to sleep that night more tired than he ever thought it was possible to be and thinks:

 

  _It’s okay. Tomorrow will be better._

 

   Eventually, as days turn to weeks, Caleb forgets what ‘better’ is supposed to mean. And just like every time before he decides, on an unremarkable, nonspecific morning, that the ache in his chest has dulled. It isn't true, but it's better, he's found, than living in misery.

 

  He never talks to Fjord and Fjord, likely taking his cue from Caleb, never brings it up, never tries to corner Caleb or pull him aside. And that’s good, that’s great. That’s exactly what Caleb wants: to forget. If he pretends it didn’t happen then everything will go back to the way it was. When it wasn’t fucked up. When it worked.

 

  But if sometimes, in the dead of night, when Caleb wakes with the echoes of screams ringing in his ears and the acrid stench of phantasmal smoke in his nostrils; he turns and curls around the memory of large, reassuring arms…

 

   Well…at least no one is awake to see the tears he smothers in his pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

> he binds me to him  
>  with dark earth and old magics;  
>    
>  and my mouth feels empty without his words,  
>  as i balance the hurt  
>    
>  against the need,  
>    
>  until the need  
>  becomes  
>  the hurt
> 
> and i am left  
>  with small flickers of remembering  
>  that slide across an empty page;  
>    
>  a silence in three parts.
> 
>  
> 
> **Opposing Forces - By Unknown**  
>    
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

 

  The biggest problem with Caleb's plan to forget...is that he can’t.

 

  Caleb’s gotten good at fucking things up and leaving. So good in fact that he, on his darker, more sardonically self-aware days, amuses himself with the thought that he’s elevated it into something of an art form. His modis operati. But now, somehow, he has found himself in a place where leaving is not an option. He’s invested too much...time...effort...affection...into this band of hooligans, he can’t afford to leave now and start over. Nott would go with him, he is certain, but the probability of them finding another group so...uniquely accommodating is nearly non-zero.

 

   So he cannot leave.

 

   So he cannot forget. Caleb cannot forget when Fjord is always there, always close enough to touch, just far enough away to buzz like a shook up hornet's nest under his skin.

 

   Caleb can’t forget.

 

   Or he won't.

 

   He chooses not to think too deeply about the distinction.

 

**.XX.**

 

_Wood against his knuckles, coarse, rough. Knocking. Tap. Tap. Too loud in the silent night. Wincing. Panic. Instinctive. Apologies tumbling from his lips. 'Don't be angry, don't be angry, don't be angry'._

 

_Wood against his forehead, coarse, rough. Listening. Tap. Tap. Footsteps. A whisper of movement in the stillness._ _Soft creaks. Floorboards shifting and the door opens softly, swiftly, a slight rasp of hinges._

 

_“Caleb.” His name is spoken on an exhalation of surprise. He doesn’t know what the face looks like, he is staring down at the ground, at the feet stood just at the threshold. Green and bare and curling from the cold._

 

_He tries to answer and can’t; he feels his lips move on nothing, syllables passing mute across his tongue._

 

_He can’t say._

 

_He needs to say._

 

_“What’s goin’ on? Is somethin’ the matter?” Fjord sounds concerned now, the softness of it bleeding away the hard edge of his initial shock, lending to the words a dozen different shades and cadences:_

 

_Strength._

 

_Certainty._

 

_Self-assurance._

 

_...Affection?_

 

_Caleb’s throat constricts with something warm and so pleasant it slowly seeps into an aching, bleeding discomfort. His fingers tremble as he reaches out to grasp at one leather gauntlet, tangling unconsciously in the red cord laced through it._

 

_He can’t say._

 

_He needs to say ._

 

_“Please.” Caleb croaks. “I can’t-”_

 

_Doubts swirl like dark waves around him and Caleb is a man lost at sea. He grips until the leather creaks and the bones of his fingers ache. The only visible, tangible refuge in all this black, shifting madness. His voice is soft and pleading. He hates both and he can help neither._

 

_“...I can’t be alone tonight.”_

 

_He risks a glance up through his lashes._

 

_Fjord is upset..._

 

_Fjord is offended..._

 

_Fjord is disguised..._

 

_Fjord is-_

 

_Fjord’s face is a complicated twist of emotions, each tripping and tumbling over each other at a pace so rapid that Caleb is hard pressed to decipher them. After long seconds, Fjord starts opening his mouth. To speak. His face decisive. And Caleb's mind jumps ahead. He's going to be kind, he's going to be nice, he's going to let Caleb down gently, and that's the moment when Caleb truly panics. He can’t bear to be turned away, cannot bear the thought of the long empty hallway, the empty night and the prospect of facing the murky, treacherous landscape of his thoughts alone._

 

_So instead of turning, instead of confidence, instead of common sense and rationality, Caleb presses close and frantically pulls Fjord’s mouth down to meet his..._

 

**.XX.**

 

Yasha howls a furious battle cry and neatly bisects the last of the marauding band of kobolds in two. Blood and viscera spatters across the ground; spraying up to spackle Yasha’s hair and face and clothing in thick droplets of crimson icor.

 

  Behind her, Caleb straightens on trembling legs, reaching out a shaky hand to watch the firebolt’s cinder char fade from his fingertips. He quickly checks the harness where his books are slung, thumbing their worn pages with a dirty fingernail in absent-minded relief. It seems they’ve managed to come through the fight unscathed. He tries his voice twice before he can manage more than a reedy whisper.

 

  “Thank you.” He finally croaks the third time and starts limping towards his barbarian friend. He fights back the need to wince with each halting motion, but it’s difficult every minute movement seems to pull at the long slashes carved across his torso and chest. He swipes at the stale sweat coating his forehead. Everything feels too hot down here, too close.

 

  “Thank you.” He says again when he’s a few steps away, and this time it’s easier to force the words past the giant fist lodged in his throat.

 

  Yasha doesn’t respond, doesn’t seem to take notice of him as he ambles up to sway precariously by her side. She’s panting heavily, lips curled back in a snarl, eyes wide and teeth clenched tight. Caleb watches as slowly her breathing starts to deepen and even out, the mad glaze fading from her eyes. She blinks, once, twice, a third time. Dreamy and sleep slow. At last she seems to realize he’s there, her lips sliding down to form their familiar grim line as she turns to cast a glance down at him. She runs a forearm over her face, streaking the splatters of blood like warpaint across the planes of her pale skin.

 

  “Are you alright?” She asks, heaving her greatsword in one hand. It whips around in a wide half-circle, the thick, dark kobold blood sloughing off of its sleek surface in heavy droplets.

 

  “Ah, yes.” Caleb nods and clears his throat. “Yes. I am alive. Thank you. For your timely intervention.”

 

  “No problem.” Yasha shrugs and slashes at the air once more before sheathing her sword. “Glad we don’t have to carry you out again this time.”

 

  Before Caleb can decide if Yasha is intentionally being a dick or not, Beau is sliding up and into the middle of their conversation, all ham-fisted compliments and jittery bravado.

 

  “That was seriously badass.” She says, obviously trying for casual, but Caleb can see her toying nervously with the ball bearings in her pocket. He doesn’t say anything. Because he isn’t a dick. Well, that and he might actually be bleeding out, but that’s beside the point right now. Or maybe that’s the entire point, it’s a little hard to think at the moment.

 

  “Thank you.” Yasha replies, her expression bland. “You did well yourself.”

 

  Caleb excuses himself before Beau can do more than stammer out a startled: ‘thanks’, not that either woman takes any notice of his clumsy departure. Yasha is already bending down to inspect her kills and Beau is helping while pretending not to check out her ass. And Caleb has no patience for awkward, useless self-denial at the moment. He has bigger fish to fry. 

 

  He spies a smudge of blue and pink and embroidered silk some distance to his left and begins limping in that direction. He makes it no more than half a dozen steps before Nott is scampering up, pulling a small red potion from her coat and eyeing the claw marks criss-crossing his body with heartwarming concern. Caleb waves the potion away, despite Nott’s insistent protestations and indicates he's headed over to where Jester and...

 

  Fjord.

 

  Where Jester and Fjord are standing…

 

  Caleb hadn’t seen Fjord in the deeper shadows, further away from his dancing lights. For an instant his step falters and he is caught by the sudden, intense impulse to turn and walk the other way. But Nott, sweet, oblivious, Nott, is grabbing hold of his elbow and urging him forward into the next two tentative steps; gentle, as if she’s afraid he’ll combust if she handles his arm too roughly. And Caleb can’t tell her 'no thank you', or explain why, suddenly, he’d rather try sewing the wounds shut himself; so instead he just stumbles and sits down heavily. And asks her if she could go and get Jester for him, please. And if he isn't faking the pain in his voice, so much the better.

 

  He glances up when Nott scurries away, towards where Jester and Fjord are flirting-

 

  Talking.

 

 Where they’re standing.

 

  Together. Talking.

 

  Caleb glances down to study the scuffed toes of his boots. They are simply having a conversation, but even if Jester is smiling and tittering and resting one deceptively delicate hand on the half-orc’s big bicep and if Fjord is smiling back and leaning into the attention…

 

  …well that's none of Caleb’s business anyway.

 

  He loses track of time for a moment, he must, because suddenly Jester is kneeling next to him, all hurried hands and warm concern. Caleb clears his throat softly as he eases his battered body backwards to lean against the tunnel’s dank wall, despite what it costs him in agony. For a moment his head goes fuzzy and his vision goes worryingly black along the edges. He hears himself start into a distant muttered diatribe and can’t stop the words seeping out in a muttered dribble.

 

  “I am sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you happened to have any healing spells to spare. I have a potion, but I would prefer not to use it because they are really very expensive and do not come back after a good night’s sleep like your magic. So if you had anything left you would be willing to use on me, it would be very much appreciated.”

 

  Jester has already found the most obvious cuts and is burrowing deeper into the folds of his clothing in search of any hidden hurts, which she discovers with both precision and all the sweet tenderness of a bludgeoning weapon. Caleb hisses and jerks away instinctively from the indelicate probing, but gets no further than the wall he doesn't remember being backed against. He can't recall if he's ever been more annoyed with a wall in his life.

 

  “This is good. This is good for you.” He whisper sing-songs to himself.

 

  “Sorry.” Jester has the grace to look apologetic at least before mutter shouting. “Oh my gods, Caleb, don’t be such a big baby.” Likely for the benefit of the rest of the party.

 

  But Caleb doesn’t call _her_ out either.

 

  Jester’s already moving on to what she describes as a “…nasty set of claw marks…” on his ribs he hadn’t even known were there, chattering away as she presses her cold hands against the worst of the lacerations. He hears the words: ‘natural poison’ and ‘only hurt a little’ and decides that he doesn’t want this conversation anymore and attempts to distract himself from Jester’s well-meaning, if not particularly encouraging banter.

 

  Caleb relaxes as best he can against the craggy rock wall behind him, lazing pain sick eyes around the long tunnel, dimly lit by his bobbing globules of radiant light. He's a little surprised to see them still pulsating in the air, casting their faint illumination over the two dozen reptilian figures laying in various states of dismemberment on the ground.

 

  At the far end of the field of light, Beau and Yasha are still chatting, done with their inspection of the Kobolds in their part of the sewers, but he’s too far away now to make out what they’re saying. Beau’s hands aren’t in her pockets anymore, instead picking at small flaws in the wood grain of her staff, twirling it in complicated patterns over her arms and shoulders. It's a show of unconscious athleticism that Caleb thinks might be more flattering than all of her intentional attempts at flirtation. Yasha’s eyes are following the movement and maybe Caleb’s imagining the approval in the barbarian’s eyes. It would hardly be the first time he’d imagined positive emotional feedback from other sentient creatures.

 

  Caleb tilts his head back to tap lightly against the wall. He sighs loudly and silently wishes the two boneheads well. And then hisses as Jester accidentally jabs a thumb in one of the deeper cuts.

 

   "Don't worry about it." He's quick to reassure her, reaching out to pat her shoulder in what he hopes is an encouraging manner. The smiles she gives him says he did alright.

 

  The back of his neck prickles lightly, the sensation of eyes drawing his attention to the end of the tunnel where Fjord and Molly are picking through their allotment of corpses and pilfering what little the Kobolds had of value. Molly is in the middle of retelling an amusing anecdote and Fjord’s face is caught in a wide grin. And maybe Caleb's imagining the flicker of yellow eyes in his direction; it’s so dark he’s probably conjuring the slightly faltering smile and the way their eyes catch.

 

   And cling.

 

   And linger.

 

   He knows he's imagining the concern he reads in Fjords face before the half-orc's shoulders tense and he wrests his focus back to his work.

 

   His imagination.

 

  Jester is rifling through her pack and pulling out a small leather satchel with tubs of pastes that smell of earth and herbs. She gathers a generous dollop of some vividly green salve on her fingers and says: “You don’t want me to close you up with the poison still inside you.”

 

  Caleb doesn’t give voice to the whispers in his mind which say: ‘It's too late for that.’ And he thinks that maybe says something about his personal growth as a person. He closes his eyes and lets Jester deal with his wound and does his best to ignore the prickle of eyes on him. If, once or twice, he peaks out to catch a glimpse of Fjord's eyes shifting quickly away and feels a corresponding raw, nauseous ache in the pit of his stomach...

 

  Well...He has just been poisoned.

 

 

* * *

 

 

   “Hey.”

 

  Caleb jerks in his seat, in the dingy back corner of an equally dingy tavern. He doesn’t look up from his books, is sat frozen, eyes wide and sightless on the page in front of him while is mind tangles itself into a jittery mess of one word:

 

   _Fjord._

 

   He wants, for the first time in his life, to look up and discover that all of his agonized internalizations have finally driven him back over the cliff of insanity. The possibility of his conjuring an illusory manifestation of a foolhardy fixation would be so much better than the alternative: that Fjord has chosen to break their unspoken arrangement never to directly interact with each other ever again.

 

  Caleb is well used to disappointment, but this one for some reason feels deeper, stings more like a personal betrayal. 

 

  The half-orc stands tall and indomitable in his scribed leathers, the red cord gleaming in the rosy light from the fireplace. His expression is blank and unreadable; though he licks his lips as Caleb glances up wordlessly, a motion the wizard follows helplessly. He watches as the scarred mouth shifts and forms words, forms meaning and he realizes, belatedly, that Fjord has asked if the seat across from Caleb is occupied.

 

  “Yes.” Caleb says, jerking his attention from his companionable mistake and back to the consolation of his inks and parchment. He spreads some of the books out in a wider sprawl, wordlessly demonstrating just how occupied the entire table is. And he knows he’s being a dick, but there aren’t enough words in any language he knows to convey how little he wants to have this out right now. Or ever.

 

  He’d thought Fjord shared that sentiment. Or at least respected it.

 

   A part of him wants to ask why now, why Fjord is choosing this moment of the innumerable instants between that night and this one to confront Caleb. He suspects it was something to do with that days' encounter with the Kobolds, but can’t reconcile the two events. It doesn’t make sense. 

 

   Why this day? Why this battle? This hurt? Why is tonight's shameful, pressing need any more insurmountable, unbearable, than it is every other guilty night? 

 

  The chair next to Caleb scrapes against the floor and Caleb’s head jerks up. He doesn’t know what of the shock, horror, anger, terror that slams through him shows on his face, but Fjord is studying him carefully as he eases himself down on the seat. The half-orc rests his hands on the table, palms resting flat, every movement calculated, careful, slow. As though Caleb is a wild animal and Fjord’s trying not to startle him. He settles back in the chair, but Caleb can plainly read the caution in the play of his muscles, the way he sits like he’s ready to bolt the instant Caleb makes any kind of arcane motion.

 

   Which of course Caleb won’t. Confrontation is no longer something he enjoys; no longer something he seeks, so instead he chooses to busy himself with his spells again and does his best to ignore the staccato rhythm of his heart. But all the time he is hyper-aware of the familiar body leaning in close. And then he can’t ignore. A firm slide of warm fingers wraps around his knee. The blood-hot palm eases up, and then slowly back down again, resting just above Caleb's knee. It stirs the blood, quickening the beat and stuttering the over-complicated buzz of Caleb’s thoughts. The words are a blind blur on the page. His attention is rested fully on that single, simple, maddening point of contact.   

 

  “Tell me you aren’t interested.” Fjord’s words soft and pleading, a pointed juxtaposition to the brazen advance of his hand.

 

   “Tell me and I’ll go.”

 

    “I…”

 

    Caleb should ask now. The simple syllable which would put an end to this spiraling madness.

 

    _ **Why.**_

 

_**Why.** _

 

_**Why.** _

 

   But he doesn’t ask, can’t shape the sounds with his trembling lips and fumbling tongue. He waits as the long drag of seconds pulls an unspoken affirmation of thought and feeling from the air and then Fjord closes the distance between them.

 

   And removes the necessity of words altogether.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

 

  Fjord fucks like the ocean.

  No. That’s not quite right.

  Fjord is metaphoric, not similac. He **is** the ocean. He is the gently lapping sea. He is a sudden, cataclysmic riptide. He is wind and waves crashing into the shore: rough, sweeping, powerful.

  And Caleb is helpless. He is a small man lost to the ebb and flow of Fjord's timeless tide. He is pulled out from the firm, solid certainty of shore; cast into the depths and all he can do is grasp and gasp and shudder and beg while the water closes over his head to overwhelm him completely. 

  Kisses sprinkle his skin like droplets, sweet pinpricks of warmth which tingle where they touch, where they are left to linger and burn like salt. The voice he knows, he recalls from the last time. The misty timber of it is mellow and hushed, cascading into his ears like a sweetly babbling current. The words pour in, familiar and strange both: the same sharp consonants and oddly elongated vowels. It’s the same language Fjord slipped into when they last slept together and Caleb wonders what secrets Fjord is whispering into the concave hollow of his sternum; what desires or endearments he treasures so much he cannot risk even in this intimacy to utter them in the common tongues of men. Caleb wonders if he will ever know.

  They twine together in passions too chaotic, to furious to be sustained. Coiling and bunching, they roil like sea serpents, rolling to the rhythm as old and treacherous as the ocean itself, hurled together like the gail winds of a hurricane. And then there is nothing but the loud thunderous roaring, the stuttering arrhythmia and the headlong plunge into euphoric completion that is a torrent. And then a trickle. And then a silence that bleeds away into lassitude too heavy to deny.

  Caleb breathes into the firm press of a pillow that smells of musk and sweat and sex. His thoughts are too jumbled with the aftermath of pleasure to focus on the dark bank of nameless clouds he can sense forming on the horizon. Whatever words should be spoken in this moment, he reflects dreamily, whatever questions and clarifications are needed between them, he cannot bear to speak them now.   

  The mattress squeaks and bounces as Fjord heaves out a soft grunt and flops down next to Caleb, one hand sliding tentative fingers to brush against the shallow dip of the small of his back.

  Caleb pretends to be asleep. It isn’t hard when exhaustion has curled itself around his bones. His thoughts are a pleasant blur around the edges, sliding towards the blissful promise of nothingness. He lets himself slip. Though the last thing Caleb recalls before he falls asleep in Fjord’s bed the second time, is the sweet sensation of gently gliding fingertips trailing charts and channels along the curve of his spine.

 

* * *

 

 

  When Caleb wakes again the clouds have rolled in and broken open to pour down guilt in sheets to soak the landscape of his mind. This new torturous self-loathing is so vividly, profoundly alive it threatens to crawls up his throat and spill across the floor.

   **He’s done it again.**

  He feels the restraining pressure of an arm laying limp across his hip, the weight of Fjord pressed close behind him and the soft flutter of softer exhalation fanning over the sensitive curve of his neck. But all Caleb knows is the horrified hammer of his heart, the pulse so dramatic he can feel it, dizzy, throbbing, in his temple.

_He’s let himself have Fjord again._

  That thought strikes too hard, too honest, and sends Caleb skittering away, scared and slipping out of bed, out of Fjord’s deceptively loose embrace. He barely pauses to gather his clothing from the floor before scrambling out of the dark room and into the denser darkness of the corridor beyond. 

  He shutters the door of his own room as quietly as he can before turning to slide down it. All of the furious, panicky energy from before is spent and Caleb is left, naked and shivery while beneath him the cold floor bites at his legs and ass. He clutches his rumpled coat and clothing closer, buries his face, hot with shame, in the filthy folds of fabric. Tears prickle in his eyes and Caleb cannot stop a single pitiful croaking sob from leaving him mouth before he swallows the rest down to keep the tight ball of guilt company in his belly.

  The first time he slept with Fjord had felt like desperation. The promise of kindness, of solidarity and companionship in a moment when Caleb had desperately needed all three. It is the only explanation he'd been able to come up with for that night.

  He has no explanation for this second time.

  He hears the rustle of bedclothes and his head snaps up instinctively.

  Nott is sitting up on her bed.. And she is looking directly at him.

  The blood in Caleb’s vein’s runs instantly hot with shame and frigid with horror. They stare at one another for some small eternity; until Nott’s eyes begin a wordless journey alone the jagged ridges of Caleb’s body. She is stoic as her gaze flicks down to his naked chest and Caleb can feel each separate bite mark burn and blaze like a beacon. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes what he has been doing, if not with whom.

  He waits for the biting words, the shaming, the mocking; hurtful words which will match the ones in his head. But they do not come. Nott slips out of bed, pauses briefly to pull the blankets off before pattering over to where Caleb is sitting against the door. He watches her shadowed form come and sit down next to him, wordlessly spreading the sheets and blankets across his bony bare legs before she snuggling in herself.

  She leans against him, the prickly ends of her hair tickling his ribs, and speaks into the darkness.

  “Are they hurting you?” She asks. And Caleb blanches, a flinch which wracks his whole body. He’s made her think that.

  “No.” He assures her quickly, honestly.

  Nott hums in response, toneless, and Caleb cannot tell if she believes him or not.

  “What hurts, Caleb?”

  Fresh tears well up and this time Caleb does nothing to stem their flow, lets them fall down his face drop by drop to meet and tumble off the end of his chin.

  “I-I don’t...” He manages a husky whisper, but can’t finish.

   “My..I don’t....”

  Nott’s head jostles his arm as she nods in understanding. She reaches out and Caleb feels her tiny hand rest lightly against his chest.

  “Where you were broken.”

  His heart.

  Not his head.

  Caleb whispers. “Yes.” As more tears bead down his face. And the words aren’t a relief, they aren’t a release. They’re just the truth. He has learned long ago there is no succor in such confessions.

  Nott stays silent so long that Caleb’s almost sure she’s drifted off to sleep. Long after the last of the tears had dried hot and sticky on his face; as he himself begins to drift back into blissful oblivion her calm voice shatters the silence.

  “I know you know what you’re doing. And it’s not my business to pry, but whomever you keep going to...are you sure they’re good for you? Are they...helping you, Caleb?”

  Caleb finds her tiny fingers in the dark and squeezes his hand around them, but doesn’t answer. Because he has no answer to give her.

  He waits long minutes until he hears her breathing turn shallow and even before he gets up and tucks her back in her bed with her blankets. And then returns to his own.

  She catches his hand ad he slips away, wraps her fingers around his and murmurs dreamily, her eyes still closed.

  “You shouldn’t have to be broken anymore, Caleb. You deserve…more…”

  She breathes out and settles again, snuggling her cheek deeper into the pillow, her grip unravelling from his.

  Caleb feels tears again against the backs of his eyes.

  He whispers. “No, I don’t.” And shuffles his way over to the other side of the room and his bed.

  He doesn’t bother to dress,  just slips in and curls up into the cold sheets on the lumpy mattress which seems suddenly too big, too empty, too lonely. He doesn’t think about that though, doesn’t think about any of it. He folds each piece away carefully, with practiced hands, spinning his webs and plans and waiting for the inevitable storm which will tear them into pieces; until the sky outside his window bleeds red. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

   It's three weeks later. A different time. A different road. The Mighty Nein trudge into town a little after midday, weary, bloody and carrying three of the biggest basilisk heads Caleb has ever had the misfortune to seeing in his life. Beau is currently resting in the cart, recovering from her brief stint as a lawn ornament, while Jester and Yasha sit next to her “Just in case she starts to turn back”.

  Caleb feels absolutely drained and knows he probably looks it too. He’d spent a good chunk of his magical energy reversing Beau’s unfortunate and untimely transformation, but he's jittery and excited and feels like he is a child again and this is the Eve of Winter's Crest. He’d been given a passphrase a while back, a passphrase which would allow him entry into the backroom of a shop which specialized in certain...banned materials and manuscripts. There was even a rumor that the owner had copies of transcripts dating back to pre-divergence eras.

  It’s a frustrating waste of a half hour to turn their horses and cart over to the questionable care of the stable master, but once they’re all a few silver lighter, Caleb is happy, if tiredly, trudging towards the market square.

  “You look dead on yer feet.” Fjord says from beside him and Caleb startles in surprise. He turns his face away to hide it, scanning the twist of cobblestone streets he can see winding off into the distance.

  “I am...uh, okay.” He tells the road and silence settles between them, heavy and uncomfortable to his Human ears.

  “That was a mighty fine display of arcane knowledge you displayed back there.” Fjord tries again, sounding gently earnest and Caleb’s chest warms a little.

  “Thank you.” He says. “But it isn’t as impressive as all that. It’s all in the book, I just speak the words and gesture when the directions tell me.” Caleb pats his coat where the bulge of his spellbook is faintly visible against his slim rib cage.

  Fjord’s chuckle is warm honey and Caleb has to look. The Half-Orc is watching him, eyes narrowed in mirth, a smile parting his generous mouth. And for the briefest of moments, Caleb is back in bed, the sweetest, smallest moment when...

   _Soft sunlight. Green skin. Green hair. Parted lips. Placid face. Breathing. Breathing. Whispered exhales. Want, the overwhelming want. Sudden. Scorching. Need. To hold. To cling. Safe. Right. Too right.Too right.Too right-_

  “I doubt it’s as simple as that.” Fjord is saying as Caleb rips his mind back to the present and he needs to get away from this conversation, this place. The space around the two of them feels suddenly claustrophobic with uncertainty, with wrong-footedness. Caleb winds his arms around himself and mutters something before he lengthens his stride to pull ahead. Away. He doesn’t know what he says, the words are lost to the clamorous echo of his thoughts.

  He can’t pretend to be friends. He can’t pretend any of this is normal.

  He wants...

  He needs...

  ...Too much.

  “Hey look.” From off to the left, Molly calls. “A bathhouse.”

  The lavender colored Tiefling pauses and then reads aloud, his voice alive with mirth. “Rosewater and Gleaming?”

  “I’ll bet it’s really a whorehouse.” Jester puts in matter-of-factly.

  “Lots of them have names like that.”

  “Well I for one think we should definitely go then.” Molly replies.

  Before anyone can reply, Fjord clears his throat.

  “Ah’d rather be rid of all this Basilisk paraphernalia before we partake in any...extracurricular activities. Besides, we don’t _know_ it’s a whorehouse.”

  Everyone in the group interjects at roughly the same time, creating a cacophonous tangle of chaotic verbiage Caleb almost has to physically duck to get around. And over it all, Fjord’s relaxed, no-nonsense voice, speaking sensibly to the rest; trying his best to wrangle sanity in the midst of their friendly chaos. It’s so endearingly ridiculous he can’t help the small mirthful hum that escapes him.

  “I am heading to the bookstore.” He calls over his shoulder to no one. He doesn’t think anyone is listening. They’d been recommended an inn already; some reasonably priced place in the middle of town by a friend of a friend; though if he ever found himself in a position where he’d need to find his companions, he could. He isn’t worried.

  “Wait, Caleb.” Nott calls after him. “I’m coming.”

  “There is no need for you to bore yourself.” Caleb turns to assure her. “This city is well guarded. And books cannot hurt me.”

  “I’ll risk it.” Molly says and comes strutting up next to where Nott and Caleb are walking at the front of their scattered formation. He nudges Caleb with his shoulder with a wiggle of his eye-brows.

  “You said ‘Banned books, right?”

  Nott’s face is hard and unreadable when Caleb glances down at her.

  “I will be fine.” He repeats.

  “All right.” Nott patts his hip and when her hand comes away Caleb’s pocket feels significantly heavier.

  “In case you see something you like.”

  “Right.” Caleb reaches down to squeeze her hand.

  “Thank you.”

  As he pulls away from the group, he can hear Fjord calmly calling the group together and heading towards the bounty office while the remaining four members of the Mighty Nein squabble about where they should go after they collect their reward. And the consensus seems to be the whore/bath house.

  “Did I miss something funny?” Molly hums and Caleb is suddenly aware that he is smiling. He can’t seem to wipe it away.

  He shakes his head.

  “It’s a Zimnian thing.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

  The bookstore is actually a secret basement in the backroom of the town’s historical museum. The proprietor is an ancient red-bearded dwarf with a pronounced limp and a hundred-thousand stories about his Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandfather’s adventuring days; which Molly takes great pleasure in teasing out of him one by one. Caleb listens with half an ear, though he suspects most, if not all, are fairy stories. He’s read the prophecies of Alaundo the Wise, as well as the histories of the Bhaalspawn conflict. None of them mention any companions with a golden helmet like the one hanging on this dwarf’s wall.

  At least the dwarf wasn’t boasting about his selection of titles. Caleb loses himself to the comforting familiarity of research.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  It fully dark by the time Caleb and Molly exit the shop. Caleb carefully tucks half a dozen new tomes away into his own personal metamagic space before turning with Molly to jaunt in the general direction of ‘Rosewater’. And if there’s a spring in his step, Molly at least has the decency to laugh about it privately. Well, mostly. The Tiefling is taking turns between whistling at passers-by and shooting Caleb bemused looks.

  Caleb doesn’t ask, mostly hoping Mollymauk will eventually take the hint or grow board and return to other, more amusing pastimes. Molly, it seems, is not so easily deterred.  

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so…pleased over a pile of old parchment.”

  “It isn’t the parchment.” Caleb shakes his head, sending matted clumps of dusty brown hair whipping around his cheeks.

  “It’s the contents.”

  “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” Molly clarifies.

  Caleb glances over at his traveling companion, trying to assess if he is teasing or not. Molly’s tilted his head up to the sky, the slight, ever-present smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

  “Well, it isn’t as though I do what I do to please anyone.” Caleb huffs, annoyed at the attention. Which only seems to amuse Molly even more. His smirk grows into a grin and he shakes his head, jangling the jewels and baubles dangling from his horns. His eyes never waver from the cloudless sky.

  “You’re a contradiction, my friend.” He says at last, and his voice, instead of laughing, is soft and more serious than Caleb has ever heard it before.

  “Bloody brilliant and stupendously foolish all to once.”

  “That’s a bold assessment.” Caleb says tersely, forgetting in his frustration, that he doesn’t do this, doesn’t confront. Doesn’t engage.

  “What makes me such a contradiction in your eyes?”

  The Tiefling’s red eyes gleam in the moonlight, knowing. The smile has disappeared from his mouth. He shakes his head again, sending his jewelry spinning and clicking together like windchimes, dancing lights in the darkness.

  “Not today.” He says to himself or the sky, or the moon, Caleb is in no mood to purse out which; before he comes back down to earth and slings an arm around Caleb’s shoulders, hauling him close.

  “You stink to high heaven and I have a burning need to find out if that bloody shop is really a whorehouse or not.”

  Caleb allows himself to be pulled along, carried along by his friend's buoyantly light-hearted conversation, though he does wonder what Molly had been about to say.

 

 

* * *

 

  

  The establishment, much to Caleb’s surprise, is open when they arrive. It also, much to his relief, isn’t actually a brothel.

  The proprietor, a smartly dressed elven woman with white-blond hair pulled into a loose tail at the nape of her neck, takes one look at him and waves both he and Molly inside.

  “Your friends mentioned you might be coming.” She says.

  “Ah, then they came back.” Caleb replies, sharing a small smirk with Molly. “I’m sorry.”

  The lady laughs and it’s a nice laugh, tittery like a songbird. “They were exemplary guests, I assure you.”

  “Will wonders never cease?” Molly whistles and slides a few silver onto the counter.

  “A bath for myself and this fine gentleman.”

  The woman picks up two of the silver and pushes the rest back towards Molly.

  “And baths you shall have. Please follow me.”

  She leads them both further into the facility, opening a room and gesturing for Molly to go in. Molly leans on the frame and winks.

  “Would you care to join me, Mr. Caleb?”

  He is teasing and he is not. Caleb sighs and shakes his head.

  “Ah well.” Molly shrugs, nonplussed. “It was worth a shot.” Before he disappears with a careless wink of one red eye and a smile.

  The elven woman beckons when Caleb turns to look and leads him on. Two hallways later she stops in front of an elaborate closure, fashioned from iron and heavily frosted glass. Inside is a polished stone floor, covered in areas with plush woven carpets; a series of painted wooden panels gleamed in the dim light spilling softly from the everlit torches hanging from the walls. The bath itself is a circular pool fashioned into the floor itself, hollowed out and worn smooth, already full with gently steaming water. A mirror is perched in one corner, gilded and finely crafted.

  Caleb turns to regard his guide.

 “Certainly this is worth more than a few silver pieces.”

  “It’s already been paid for.” The lady explains and urges him inside where he stands, uncomfortable and confused, in the center of the room while she directs his attention to the towels and a clothing rack stood to one side of the door.

  “I could also clean and mend your clothing if you’d like.” She eyes his blood soaked coat with sympathy.

  “I would, ah...no, no thank you.” Caleb stutters, folding his arms across his chest. The woman doesn’t bat an eyelash. She nods, bows and then leaves Caleb in privacy to undress.

  Caleb breaths out a short huff he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and begins to unwind the scarf from his neck, wandering around the room to inspect its various amenities. He wonders who paid for all this, and how he’s going to pay them back.

  The door behind him creaks open, the barest creak of hinges and Caleb turns, expecting Molly, with a remark about incorrigibility on the tip of his tongue.

  The words die a quick and soundless death on his lips.

  Fjord is standing in the doorway, naked and resplendent, holding a towel in one large hand. Muscles gleaming in the soft orange glow of the wall lamps. And again, Caleb is struck by the effortless beauty of Fjord.

  When Caleb finally finds his voice, it is little more than a strangled croak.

  “What...what are you…doing here?”

  “Ah was hoping you’d come here.” The half-orc rumbles and the sound of it, the sheer lusty timber of it stirs Caleb’s blood. Like Pavlov’s dogs, his body knows what comes after.

  “You were waiting here, all those hours?”

  Fjord nudges the door closed with one foot and the ‘click’ of it is loud and final and arousing all at once. Excitement and anxiety mixes like intoxicants in Caleb’s blood and he looks up, dizzy as Fjord stalks slowly up to him, crowding in close enough for him to feel the heat of his body through his many layers of clothing.

  “...Ah like the water.”

  He takes a furtive step backwards and then a second. Each step matched by Fjord, maintaining the barest space between them.

  “That’s still a long time to spend in-”

  Fjord reaches out and catches Caleb in one hand around the back of his neck, carding his slender, dextrous fingers through the sweat-dampened hair at the base of his skull. His nails scrape along the scalp and Caleb sighs out a groan.

  “...the bath.” He finishes lamely as Fjord leans down to seal their lips together. And suddenly it’s passion, biting and he’s slanting his head to dive deep into Caleb’s mouth. And this, yes, this, is what Caleb saw coming. He can feel the wind pick up as skilled, knowing hands pull his clothing aside, unwrap each and every layer to leave him bare and shivering and exposed.

  He cannot hope to escape its ferocity.

  So Caleb reaches up to wrap his arms around Fjord’s shoulders and hold on as the storm breaks overhead.   


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

>  
> 
> your hands are strong;  
>  all sandpaper, sharp soap  
>  and hard work  
>    
>  like a vise,  
>  you tighten my fingers to yours,  
>  press bone against bone  
>  tempered by flesh  
>    
>  we walk the dirt, nestled in the bosom of the green hills,  
>  the sweet smell of clover hanging on the remnants  
>  of the early morning dew  
>    
>  "will it ever be enough",  
>  i ask as the road bends to the left  
>    
>  lost in memory, your far away eyes gleam gray  
>  "i suppose everyone needs to fill a bucket now and again."

  
  

**Near Wicklow**

By Seanchai

 

* * *

 

 

 

  Caleb kills them every night. It’s always new, always a fresh way to twist the blade in his guts, sink it deeper and remind himself of the monster he is.

  One night he poisons them.

  One night he drowns them.

  One night he chases them down, crushes his father’s skull with a rock cut through the center with a ring of white and then wraps his fingers around his mother’s throat. But it doesn’t matter how he kills them, he always wakes after: shaking, sweating as the last bitter dregs of the dream fade, leaving behind only the faintest memory of betrayal dimming to nothingness in their eyes.

   But on the bad nights, on the special nights, Caleb will watch his family burn. These times, like all the other times he kills them, never happens the same way twice, and never in the way he knows is right. But the same players are all assembled.

_Muter._

_Vater._

_Friend._

**_Lover_ ** _._

  Sometimes they are calm, watching one another with tearless, pitying eyes as the flames slowly consume them. Sometimes they burn and leap and shriek along with the fire while their flesh froths and bubbles and at last falls away to ashes. Sometimes they simply weep and fade into shadow and the uneasy promise of a restless eternity. Sometimes they pop, like embers in a firepit, ‘crack’ _‘crack’_ ** _‘crack’_** ; sometimes they are sparks which snap and dance, frenzied and fiendish in their desire to wreck and destroy. Hateful. Hungry. Powerful, consuming each other one by one until Caleb is the only one left standing in a bed of cold ruin.

  Tonight...tonight is a special night.      

 

* * *

****

 

   _Once more. And then he’ll quit. Just once more and then he’ll cut himself off._

  Caleb loses track of the times he tells himself that lie.  He **can** turn away, he **can** quit anytime. So it doesn’t matter if he lets himself go this time, if he slips up every now and then. It’s pathetic, but the lie tastes better than the truth.

  But ‘every now and then’ turns into ‘occasionally’ turns into ‘often’, turns into ‘frequently’. He can't quit, or doesn’t. And so this game of keep-away he plays with himself stretches on for weeks and then months and by the time Caleb decides that he can’t bear the weight of his own misery anymore he finds he no longer has the ability to say ‘no’. When Fjord comes to him at the bath house, in the dead of night; when he presses kisses into Caleb’s palms and licks at the cuts on his thighs, Caleb can do nothing but close his eyes and cling to broad shoulders, and wish that the sun would never come.

  The nights in between are strange, suffused with the restless, relentless certainty that this bizarre equilibrium he has found within his own mind and Fjord’s body is balanced on the razor's-edge of a knife.

   He is caught, slowly suffocating beneath the crushing weight of needing to leave and wanting to stay and knowing, knowing, _knowing_ , that this cannot last forever.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Caleb opens his eyes and chokes on an breathe tainted grey with smoke and cinder. He scrambles out of bed, wiping tears and sweat from his face, staining the sleeve of his shirt crimson._ **

**_No._ **

**_He blinks and the streaks are dirt again. Not red, not blood._ **

**_No._ **

**_The blood is on his hands._ **

**_Seventeen years ago._ **

**_The moon is hung fat and red in the sky, burning and brilliant and mocking; a hunter’s moon, Caleb hates its formless taunting face; he hates and shrinks back from it and stumbles out of his room, out into the black hallway. But black is better than red._ **

**_His bed calls to him, jeering, beckoning him back to nightmare and he ignores its pitiless croonings. There will be no respite from torment in sleep this night._ **

**_This night._ **

**_Seventeen years ago._ **

**_There are hours left still until the sallow refuge of dawn comes. Hours left for the revenants and phantoms to harry and ruin his mind with their shrieking truths._ **

**_Murderer._ **

**_Filth._ **

**_Wretch._ **

**_Failure._ **

**_Broken._ **

**_But in the distance, in the furthest room there is a light. Yellow. It is small, smoldering; casting flickering fingers under the door to beckon him closer. And Caleb is drawn to it, step by tremulous step until he is at the door, his feet dipping hesitantly into the glow._ **

**_Refuge._ **

**_Comfort._ **

**_He reaches out and knocks softly._ **

**_'Tap, Tap,'_ **

 

* * *

 

 

  Caleb rolls out of bed, leaning down to begin the tedious but necessary chore of gathering his scattered garments before he makes the tedious but necessary journey back to his own room.

  He is stepping into his pants when he hears the bed creak behind him.

  “Are you leavin’?” Fjord asks. He is laying on his side when Caleb glances back, his eyes wide and awake and unreadable when they meet.

  “J’ah.” Caleb nods and turns away from the directness of that gaze. He bears the weight of Fjord’s scrutiny between his shoulders like a cross. Bowing him, bending and cowing him. This is the first time Fjord has been awake to watch him leave. Or...perhaps this is just the first time Fjord hasn’t pretended to sleep for his sake. And Caleb for the life of him, cannot imagine why-

  “You don’t have to.” Fjord says and the blood turns cold in Caleb’s veins. _Run_ . Says the voice in his head. _Run. Run. Run!_

  He doesn’t bother putting on his coat or his scarf before pulling open the door.

  He doesn’t look back, but the voice follows him for the rest of the day.

  _'Run'_ it tells him.

  _'Why?'_ He asks.

  The voice doesn't have an answer.

 

* * *

 

   **_This time they try to get away._ **

**_This time Caleb finds them hiding in the bowels of a ship lost at sea._ **

**_This time they beg and mash their lips to his boots while he laughs and then guts them with the knife he finds in his hand._ **

**_“Good.” Astrid whispers from the dark, from his side, from beneath him as he ruts her in the drying pools of his parent's blood._ **

**_“Gut, meine geliebte.” She strokes her fingers through his hair, tender, sweet, like they once were before he broke. Before he was no longer worthy of her._ **

**_“Meine geliebte.”_ **

**_A hand falls, firm on his shoulder and Caleb is turned over, the bare skin of his back smacks wetly against the blood soaked decking as he gazes up in horror at the Half Orc who stares back at him._ **

**_“Was…? Nein…” Caleb struggles, his heart and fingers jitter like fluttering birds, against the body pinning his down. He should be able to push him away, but Fjord resists him, traps him. Caleb manages to free one arm, flails it madly, blind with panic, to slap across Fjord’s eyes._ **

**_“Don’t see, don’t see, don’t see…” He begs, but his hand is torn away and pinned down next to him in the filth and Fjord can see all of the horror that he is._ **

**_“Bitte…” He struggles, but Fjord’s grip is unyielding._ **

**_“Bitte…” He begs as tears sting their way down his face._ **

**_“Bitte…Close your eyes.”_ **

**_And Fjord tangles their fingers together, leans in to whisper, lover soft, against his ear._ **

**_“...No.”_ **

 

* * *

 

  Breakfast that morning is strange in that it is no different from any other breakfast their little group has ever shared. Beau and Yasha are stealing side-eyed looks at one another when they think no one’s watching, while Molly teaches Jester how to read a tarot deck to the strange and savagely endearing sound of Nott furiously stuffing sausage into her mouth. Across the table from Caleb, Fjord seems to be quietly enjoying his own plate of bacon and hash, not speaking to anyone.

  And not looking at Caleb.

  And Caleb isn’t looking at him.

  The dream has followed him up into the waking world, caught him around the throat to hang like a lead laden shroud across his shoulders. This is the first time Fjord has come into his nightmares and Caleb cannot decide what it means. What he wants it to mean.

  He thinks perhaps it is better, considering how things ended their last fuck, not to consider the possibilities too deeply.

  Outside, the red sky has turned grey with clouds, plump and full of lightning, casting their bitter tears down to soak the earth.

  “What an absolutely miserable excuse for a day.” Molly says jovially while his hands run his cards through a complicated looking shuffle.

  “What **are** we going to do with ourselves?”

  “We could hit the road.” Fjord offers without any real conviction; and the party promptly and with relative unity shoots that idea down.  

  “I have some supplies I need to get before we leave town anyway.” Caleb tells his plate and ignores the scattered sighs and groans which follow the statement.   

  “That’s fair.” Fjord agrees and his tone is pleasant and sprinkles hints of fondness into Caleb’s ears, though when Caleb snatches a glance up at the half-orc through his lashes, Fjord isn’t looking at him.

  “It seems as though we have the time for it.” Fjord focuses his attention to the other side of the table where Beau and Yasha are seated.

  “What do you two think?”

  Yasha shrugs. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

  “Yeah,” Beau agrees and Caleb rises from the table.

  “There. That seems to be settled then. I’ll return soon.”

  He reaches for Fjord’s plate without thinking, swipes a piece of bacon and has it halfway to his lips before a hand wraps around his wrist, arresting his movement. Fjord’s hand. Caleb’s mouth instantly dries.

  “Were you looking for some company on your little excursion?” Fjord asks and Caleb almost doesn’t hear Jester say: ‘But Fjord, you hate shopping.’ over the rush of white noise in his ears. Like Fjord needs to be reminded. Like the group needs to be told how odd and out of character it is for Fjord to offer. His mind whirls, not panic, not yet.

 _A_ _ttention,_

_Speculation,_

_Questions,_

_Eyes..._

**_...diggingpryingsearching-_ **

  “Nein. I am fine. There is not much trouble I can get up to in a bookshop.”

  “You never know.” Fjord chuckles.

  “I think it’s safe to say that trouble has a way of finding us.”

  “All the same.” Caleb says, tugging at his trapped arm.

  “I'm not particularly in the mood for company. It will likely bore you all to tears anyway.”

  He says this forcefully and feels self-conscious when the tavern around him goes a little quieter in response. He turns his head away and tugs again. This time Fjord’s hand comes loose. Caleb snatches his wrist back and turns quickly towards the exit. He doesn’t run, but only just barely; while the howling echo of stunned silence hounds his footsteps.

 

* * *

 

  Molly is the first to notice when Caleb returns, trying to shake the worst of the rainwater out of his hair.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in and pissed all over.” The Teifling raises his steaming bowl of...something, in mock salute.

  “Did you manage to spend yourself into the poor house again?”

  “I found what I need.” Caleb replies, dusting droplets off the sleeves and shoulders of his coat. He looks around the room and catches the eye of the barmaid.

  “Whatever you have that’s hot.” He tells her and flashes her a few silver pieces before heading over to join Molly at the table.

  “Ah, so you’re not completely destitute.” Molly eyes the silver with amusement.

  “Will wonders never cease.”

   Caleb glances around the room and is pleased and disappointed that he doesn't see green skin or beat-up leather armor anywhere among the throng of soggy patrons. Molly's mouth is tight when Caleb returns his attention to the table.

  "He and Nott went to run an errand."

  Caleb ignores Molly in favor of pulling out his spellbook and beginning the arduous process of transcribing new spells into it. Molly seems to get the hint. At least he doesn't press the topic and Caleb pours himself into his work. Distantly, he's aware of the stew being placed at his elbow, of the sound of cards ruffling in a rapid hum as Molly shuffles them with dexterous fingers, but it's easy to lose himself in the monotonous familiarity of pen and ink. He doesn’t know how much time passes before his awareness expands enough to realize Jester is flouncing up, all flamboyant energy and adorable turbulence.

  “Okay Molly, I’m ready to try again.” She pauses at the table, perhaps startled to see her bedraggled wizard friend.

  “Oh, when did you get back, Caleb?” She leans over until her head is blocking his view of the book. Caleb knows by now how fruitless it is to resist Jester when she gets this way. Which is to say, when she exists. So he sighs and leans back so he can meet her stare.

  “I little while ago.”

  “Try two hours.” Molly retorts.

  “You’ve been staring at that book for two hours?” Jester looks concerned.

  “Hasn’t your butt fallen asleep, Caleb?”

  _Yes_.

  He shrugs.

  “Well that won’t do at all.” Molly declares. He raises his arm and snaps his fingers.

  “Hey, you, gorgeous, a fresh bowl for my friend.”

  “That’s not necessary.” Caleb starts, but Molly is waving his hand, as if to ward off Caleb’s protestations.

  “What you need, and what I’ve been saying you need since the day we met, if you’ll recall, is a bit of a laugh. What do you think, Princess?” This he says to Jester.

  Jester straightens, her hands clasped innocently behind her back as she swings her shoulders back and forth in poorly contained excitement.

  “Oh, I could give you a reading, Caleb! I’m really, really good.”

  “I have a lot of work to do.” Caleb starts to say as the barmaid comes and replaces the cold, congealed bowl of stew at his elbow with a fresh one. The aroma of savory meats and spices drifts gently up to tickle Caleb’s nose and make his mouth water. His empty stomach grumbles.

  “Fine.” He fans the open page of his spellbook with a loose sheet of parchment until the ink’s lost it’s wet sheen and then tucks the book away in his coat. He picks up the stew and takes the first careful bite as Jester seats herself next to Molly, carefully smoothing out the skirts of her dress. Caleb watches as she studiously shuffles the deck eight times, only losing one or two of the cards which she tucks back into the pile with a playful wink. She sets the deck on the table with probably more gravity than Caleb thinks is necessary given they all know this is all a crock of shit. But he finds Jester’s genuine earnestness endearing nonetheless.

  “Okaaaaaaay Caleeeeb.” Jester says, using her ‘Speak with the dead’ voice and Caleb hides his smile in the next spoonful of stew.

  “I’m going to pick out ten cards and they are going to tell me all of your secreeeeeeeeeeets.”

  “J’ah, okay.” Caleb nods, his eyebrow arched in amusement as Jester lays out ten cards face down with an over dramatic flourish. It's hard not to get caught up with her energy.

  “These caaaaaaaards represent your journey to spiritual enlightenmeeeeeent.” Jester tells him and when Caleb glances over at Molly, the other Teifling shrugs.

  “Eh, that’s close enough.”

  “Now this one” Jester points to one of the cards, drawing Caleb’s attention back to her.

  “Is going to tell me everything that’s going on in your head right noooooooowwww....”

  “It’s the other one.” Molly corrects in a quiet tone.

  “Oh.” Jester blinks and then shifts the direction of her finger to indicate the correct paper rectangle.

  “That ooooooooooone.”

  In spite of himself, Caleb is actually fighting back a chuckle, as he has found happens a good deal more frequently than he means when he voluntarily spends time in the company of Jester and Mollymauk. He takes another bite of the hearty soup and talks around the thick cut carrots and potatoes.

  “Don't keep me waiting. I’m on pins and needles.”

  “Okay, okay.” Jester flips the card over and reads the word on the bottom, written in heavy, looping gold script.

  “The Hermit,” She looks up at him. “...was drawn upside down. So you are lonely and isolated and withdraaaawn.”

  “Well that isn’t much of a secret.” Molly puts in blandly.

  Caleb laughs. “Are you going to use that voice for the whole reading?”

  “Yes I aaaaaaaam!” Jester flips over the next card while Molly snickers quietly next to her.

  “The upside down tower stands between you and enlightenment.” Jester says. “You are avoiding chaaaaaange and it isn’t good for yoooooou.”

  Caleb shrugs off the tingle of warning at the back of his neck and he has to remind himself that this is just a card game. He’s seen Mollymauk scam people with this same deck a hundred times over. There’s nothing special happening here. It’s just a foolish little diversion on a rainy afternoon.

  “Okay,” He says and sets aside his empty bowl, his belly warm and full.

  “...what’s next?”

  Jester indicates the next card. “This one represents where you’ve come froooooom.” She flips it over and Molly sits up a little straighter in his chair, his face the picture of consternation.

  “Three face cards...That’s a bit unusual.”

  “Oh?” Caleb frowns and leans forward himself, inspecting the paper in Jester’s tiny hand.

  “It means there's some big upheaval coming or occurring in the reader's life.” Molly says flippantly, though his eyes are serious and locked on the seven cards which had yet to be overturned.

  “Or so they say.”

  “Or so they say.” Caleb repeats and this time it’s harder to silence the voice crying _‘too close’_ in his ear.

  “The Magician.” Jester proclaims loudly, bringing the boys attention back to her.

  Caleb’s voice catches for a split second before he asks.

  “What...does the card mean?”

  “It means you were super good at doing magic things.” Jester surmise, drawing out the ‘i’ in things.

  “Cunning.” Molly clarifies thoughtfully.

  “It means resourcefulness and skill. You were once a man of action.”

  Caleb feels the uptick in his heartbeat and the voice begins to sing out in time.

   _‘Too close...too close...too close…too right...’_

  “Think I should turn in.” Caleb starts to get up and Jester protests.

  “Oh come on Caleb, don’t be such a stick in the mud.” And flips the next card over without waiting for his reply.

  The face is painted deep blues and violets overlaid with swirling geometric shapes in silver dancing around the edges and a slender crescent in the center. Beneath the image, two words are spelled in delicately scrawled filigree.

  ‘The Moon’

  “This card represents events or influenceeeeeees which are coming to an end.” Jester recites and then breaks out of her 'mystic' voice to say in her typical bubble.

  “It means fear and anxiety; that’s really great, Caleb!” She puts a hand on his sleeve and doesn’t seem to notice when he doesn’t respond, too caught up in the loose mysticism of the moment. Caleb doesn’t hear the next card over the roaring in his head except that it’s something in the suit of pentacles.

  He hears the next one though, a bell clanging painfully in his ears.

   “...represents your future…”

  The card slides across the table, spinning to a halt  just in front of him. Caleb looks, in spite of every instinct which tells him not to. Two naked figures stand, one male and dark haired, the other lithe and possessed of a mane of golden hair; their hands are stretched out for one another, just out of reach, while above a winged goddess watches, her face impassible.

  “Huh, the Lovers.” Molly says those words the same way he might’ve observed it was raining when one expected snow. But Caleb is a jumbled rush of motion and emotion. He doesn’t recall leaving the table, what words he speaks or if he bothered to mumble an excuse before staggering away. He doesn’t even really care. His next moment of lucid awareness comes and he finds himself standing outside of his door. A phantom hand squeezes his chest and his every breath is drawn in ragged and painfully shallow gasps.

_It’s just a game._

  He leans into the solidity of the door and repeats the words until they blur together in his mind and lose coherent meaning.

_It’s just a game. It’s just a game. Just a game. Just a game. Just a game._

  “Caleb?”

   _No. No. No. No. No. No, not Fjord. Anyone but Fjord._ Caleb shakes his head, grinding his forehead against the wood painfully. But it does nothing to bring order to the chaos of his mind.

   _Why him? Why is it always him? They Know. Pain. Lovers. Can't-_

   “Molly asked me to come check on you. He said you weren’t feelin’ well.”

  He’s slipping, sliding down a long empty tunnel, backwards from reality. It’s a familiar journey, a descent into madness he cannot slow, cannot stop.

_Down, down, down. No way out. Hate. Want. Caught. Can’t think. Can’t hide. Fuck Molly._

****    “Caleb.” Fjord’s body is warm where he steps up close to Caleb’s side. Not hot, not burning, but pleasantly warm like the sea Caleb once swam in years ago as a child. Pleasant. Hazy. Dreamlike in quality and perfection. He was happy in the ocean. He was...

  _No...no...no…Not again...not lovers...isn’t real...isn’t right...Fjord...broken...worthless...too good, too good. Fjord, Fjord, Fjord, Fjord, FjordFjordFjordFjordFjordFjord-_

  “Are you allright?”

  Waves rise up like a monstrous creature. It rears its horrible shapeless head. Caleb feels a hand on his arm as the tunnel claims him and the monster follows him down to swallow him whole.

 

* * *

 

 

  Bed springs squeak. Rusted.

  _Eek…_

_Eek…_

_Eek..._

  Sheets pull. They rip. He feels the tears in his mind. Bunch and flex and filled with gaping holes. Worthless.

  Caleb is no longer sure if this is a dream or reality. He can feel the weight pressing him down, feel the fullness, the pressure and pleasure of being fucked. He grasps at wide hard shoulders and measures the reality with his fingertips, but when he looks past Fjord’s shoulder he sees his parents gaunt faces peering down at him from the ceiling and. their hollow eye sockets drip gore down on his face.

  _Plop_

_Plop_

_Plop_

  They smile at him, broken teeth, charred lips, and their skin begins to sluff off, flopping on the floor beside the bed with sickening wet smacks.

  _“Darling boy.”_ Their bones croon at him.

   _“Brilliant boy.”_

   _“Talented boy.”_

_“Make us so proud.”_

  “Caleb.” Fjord pants into his ear and the grip on Caleb’s hips tighten. The rhythm of their hips quicken. Pleasure, fresh, new, sparks, rolls; waves of it, spiking him up and up and up.

   _“Traitor.”_ Astrid murmurs into his other ear and Caleb stiffens, his mind blanking from panic. He turns his head to look at her.

   _“Worthless.”_ She laughs her pretty laugh and presses in close to his side, tangles their fingers together and scrapes her nails down his arm.

  _“Broken.”_

  She bites his cheek and Caleb feels the pain blossom quick and so sudden he can only gasp as she draws back, pulling miles of shredded flesh with her. Gore gouts out from the wound in Caleb’s face until their are both covered in it.

  _“Don’t leave me.”_ She says as she bends down and sinks her teeth into his chest, right above where his heart is beating out a terrified staccato.

   _“I love you.”_

_“We love you.”_

  Skeleton hands join Astrid’s. Prickle, tickle, peirce, tear. More blood, seeping, spilling, staining.

_Hurt, hurt, dying, cannot escape, cannot move._

  Fingers in his hair. Torn open. Pain. The wet popping, crackling as his bones  his body is pulled open.

  _“Even though you killed us.”_

_“So proud.”_

_“Traitor.”_

_“See what you learned?”_

_“See what you are?”_

A tender hand cups his jaw, tilting his face up to meet Astrid’s as she slips her mouth against his while he gasps out in pain. _“You will always be nothing, my love.” She strokes his cheek and wraps her fingers around his throat._

_“You will always be nothing but a country mouse with delusions of grandeur.”_

 Caleb shakes and scrabbles feebly against her claws, forcing in shallow, breathless gasps. He is cut open, laid bare, helpless to do anything but watch as she reaches into him and pulls his beating heart from his gaping chest. It is an ugly thing, black and cancerous and she squeezes it until dark icor trickles down her arm and the muscle crumbles into dust her hand.      

 

* * *

 

 

  Caleb drifts up from the murky limbo that is neither sleep nor wakefulness to find himself in that same shabby hallway, crowded close, body tight up where he has pressed Fjord into the opposite wall, one hand clasped around the half orc’s throat. The other is drawn back, he can see the burn of arcane energy swirling in his peripheral vision and Caleb realizes with sickening certainty what he’d been about to do.

  Fjord stares back at him, his expression free of concern or judgement. Caleb feels Fjord’s cold fingers where they’re gripped gently around his wrists and slowly, with heartbreaking tenderness, Fjord pulls Caleb’s hand from around his throat. The skin bleeds back to vivid, angry green, filling in the indent of Caleb’s unconscious cruelty. These marks will heal. Caleb hadn’t had time to...

  He stumbles back into the far wall, the jaring pain of impact brings him a little more fully to reality.

  “I’m sorry.” Caleb croaks at the floor. He scrapes his nails against the wood planks set firmly at his back. It is firmness. It is solid. It is reality.

  “I didn’t mean to...please believe I didn’t intend…”

  “What was that?”

  Caleb flinches and says nothing. Silence falls, heavy and awkward between them.

  “Is that was happens sometimes?” Fjord tries again.

  “When you go away?”

  Caleb hangs his head, scrubs a shaky hand through his hair.

  “Why me?” He asks, his voice carrying a tremor he hates, but can’t swallow.

   “You can see...what I am. You know and all I have is a spellbook and a magical cat that you hate. You’re smart enough to know that I am...not going to become better. I don’t know how to be better. And yet you’re still here. Why are you still here?”

  Caleb’s words are punched out with more courage than he thought he possessed in his entire being and he is exhausted by the time he’s finished, fidgety and a moment away from running. If Fjord moves. If Fjord takes a step.

  But Fjord doesn’t move. He stands, slouched, and speaks in a tone Caleb has never heard before.

  “I know what you are. And I know what you think you are. And I want to hold both of them.”

  “But why?” Caleb insists. “Why do you want me?”

  It takes Fjord a long time to answer.

  “Does it matter why? Isn’t it enough that I do?”

  “Do you want to fix me?” Caleb barks immediately.

  “You want to fuck the broken little wizardling into solidarity?”

  Fjord sighs. “I want you, Caleb; not what I think you will or can be, just you. Gods know why, but I do. If you want me, then have me; if you don’t then we’ll go our separate ways now, no hard feelings. I’m whatever you need me to be. A drinking buddy. A shoulder to cry on. A lover. Or someone you used to fuck.”

  Caleb drags his eyes up to Fjord and meets his steely, serious gaze.

  “What if I’m never anything but broken?”

  Fjord’s expression softens into something sad.

  “Then I’ll hold whatever pieces I can find.”

  Caleb takes one step, and then a second, faltering, hesitant. A third, weak, shuffling. He reaches out and tangles his fingers in the red cord, his arm outstretched. He feels tears and hangs his head again. His voice is choked with them.

  “I can’t…”

  He swallows.

  “I’m too…scared.” The last word is barely even a whisper. An exhalation of breath.

  “Find someone else. Someone who isn’t...”

  Fjord’s arms come up, wrap around him slowly, obviously; for Caleb’s benefit. He could duck out and away. And Caleb knows that if he does that’ll be it. The end. He considers the long stretch of days filled with danger and companionship, but not love, not in the heady, reckless way that will mean baring himself and his ugliness to another person. He could survive that future. But could he live it?

 

    _Run_. The voice in his head shrieks. _Runrunrunrunrun_. _.._ Caleb pushes it aside, firmly, determined, terrified. And it hurts at it goes, pulling pieces of him with it, more shards from the crumbling pile he'd built himself into. It retreats, snarling and rabid. Distant now, but not gone. Never gone entirely.

 

  Fjord’s embrace is right and whole and Caleb, for the first time in a very long time, lets himself believe in a future filled with more than survival. He breathes out a stuttering sigh against the sweep of Fjord’s collarbone. His fingers tingle where they’re now hopelessly tangled in the gauntlet, but he can’t bring himself to move, so suddenly and completely overtaken by a weariness he can feel down to his bones.

  This. This terrifying unknown. Is what he was missing.

  “Hey look.” Fjord rumbles quietly; the hum of it is soothing in Caleb’s chest.

  “I found one.”

 

* * *

 

 

"The last time Caleb traveled through Port Damali, his attention was caught, rather by accident, by a cart full of imported pottery.

  It was the glint of silver which snatched his attention from the unremarkable earth, pulled him from his aimless wanderings and demanded he investigate the odd conglomeration of pots, bowls and vases spread out over the back of a hired cart. There was, beyond the standard array of dishes, each elegant and vividly colored, one specific piece which captured his attention.

  The bowl was small and deep, its pale green glaze almost somber in contrast to the brilliant purples and blues of its kin in the cart. But this dish had been notably broken. Caleb could see the jagged scars running across the whole of its surface, fleshed out in exaggerated, twisting veins of silver.

  The artist, a man with dark skin and easy brown eyes, had laughed when Caleb inquired after the piece; when he asked if it wouldn’t be easier to simply throw the shards away once it had broken.

  “There is beauty in imperfection.” The man had said and ran his thumb almost tenderly along one of the slender, winding currents before pushing it into Caleb’s dirt-streaked hands with a sad smile.

  “And this bowl is even more beautiful for having been broken.”

  Caleb hadn’t understood then. He’d carried the bowl with him from one side of the continent to the other before it was stolen from him by jailors too sure of his crimes to be guilty over their own. Before then though, every so often, he would find it tucked between pages of ragged paper and balls of slowly unspooling yarn and he would bring it out to run his hands tenderly along the edge of each fragment; think that they should feel sharp, should cut into the calloused pads of his fingers. But the seams were always smooth, always perfect.

  The man was wrong, Caleb would think, whenever he remembered the young man. Not everything that was broken could ever be repaired. There came a point where a person, a pot, became so broken there was no point in salvaging the dust. And a heart, a mind, could not be fixed; not with a smelting fire and careful hands.

  Caleb hadn’t understood then.

  But he understands now.

  "Fjord doesn't fix Caleb. Nothing will ever 'fix' Caleb. He's far too shattered to ever be whole again, flawless again. But there is something else now, something besides the hurt, something which completes him, binds him, something that feels a bit like hope. And when Fjord wraps his arms around Caleb, their bodies settled together easily, comfortably; in the mornings when Caleb wakes to warm wide awake eyes and whispers "Guten Morgen", those are the times Caleb feels like maybe this was the point all along.

  Caleb doesn’t have to be _fixed_.

  He just has to be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Whew' and there it is! I'm sorry this took so long. Please leave a kudos or a comment if you liked it. Or if you have some constructive criticism, I'd love to hear it! Thank you to everyone who stuck with me. You can find more hot mess over on tumblr @ea-stofnar. Feel free to drop me a line.


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